Not Mark's Week
by Monj
Summary: Mark's week is going downhill fast.  Really fast.  MarkRoger and RogerApril.  One shot and Prerent.


**Okay, here's another go at some slash. It's been a while since I've written anything long enough to post, so hopefully this all flows correctly. Enjoy!  
**

**Monday**

Oh god. Oh _god_. This was not going to be Mark's week. Not if it started off like this. This was going to be the most horrible of Horrible Weeks. Complete with capital letters. Maybe it'd be a better week if he wasn't such a fucking moron and paid attention to something going on around him for once. Maybe. He doubted it, with his luck. He'd just walked in on Roger and April having sex. i _On his bed _/i . What the fuck they were doing on his bed and not in Roger's room Mark didn't know and didn't want to know. Doubtless it would involve some weird story that would make him not want to sleep in his bed ever again. Even after changing the sheets. Anyway, he sure as hell wasn't going to ask them. It was bad enough just walking in on them. It was going to be _years_ before he could even look at them without turning red, he knew it.

Not because they were having sex. That was normal. Roger and April had sex all the time, and they had it everywhere. Everyone in the loft was used to politely ignoring them at best, or making fun of them at worst. So that itself wasn't what had been so different about this time of walking in on them. And it wasn't because Roger had looked over and seen him. They were friends—that didn't matter. Accidents happened, and it wasn't the first time someone had walked in on April and Roger. No, it was because he'd been a heartbeat away from asking if he could join them. He'd even opened his mouth before his mind had caught up and he'd fled the room. Damn it. _Damn it_. That was not something he should be thinking. Not even when he knew he was sometimes attracted to guys. Not even with Collins preaching about open sexuality for the last year. You just didn't think that kind of thing. Mark knew you shouldn't think about that kind of thing, not when it was your i best friend /i . Not when you had a thing going on with a pretty girl that Collins knew. Not when you were serious about it. At least Mark didn't think you did. He was pretty sure there was a line somewhere there, between the "best friend" and "lover" zones. You could mess up friendships that way, so you didn't go there.

Did you? Maybe you did. Mark wasn't sure. He'd had some wild thoughts about girls before. He'd had some wild thoughts about guys before. Hell, he'd had wild thoughts about guys and girls at the same time before. That wasn't the issue here. The issue was that this was _Roger_. His best friend. The punk rock star. Roger might get away with something like walking in and asking to get in on sex, but not Mark. He just couldn't do that. Not with anyone, especially not with Roger.

He walked around the main room in a small circle in a vain search for something he could do to pretend he hadn't just wanted to enter into some kind of threesome. Damn his pale skin and open face. Roger would take one look at his face and i _know_ /i . Mark fucking knew it. He had to…he had to distract himself. There was a loud moan in his room, and Mark had taken a step closer before he realized it. And then another step. And then he was reaching for the door before his mind caught up with his body and he fled back to the couch. Another moan made his groin tighten, and he decided to get out of there before his body started making decisions for him that he would probably regret later.

He grabbed his jacket and ran out the door.

**Tuesday**

Mark slowly took his glasses off and polished them on his shirt before looking at himself in the mirror again. The view did not improve.

This was bad. No, this was _terrible_. This was worse than when Cindy had cornered him and practiced using her curling iron on his hair. Mark groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. Collins and Roger were going to fucking laugh their asses off at this. And they'd be justified for doing so.

Gingerly, he reached up and poked his hair. It didn't move. It didn't move because Maureen had fucking gelled it more than he'd known you could gel hair. God, what on earth had possessed him to let Maureen cut his hair? Just because he had a crush on her, and hoped that she maybe liked him back was no reason to let her do that. He knew how crazy her style was. That was one of the things he liked about her. Her crazy style. But he liked it on her…not on him.

When a second, harder poke caused his hair to make a cracking sound, Mark just turned the sink on, stuck his head under the sink, and scrubbed until his hair actually felt like hair again. Or what was left of his hair felt like hair again.

After he'd left the loft yesterday, he'd walked aimlessly around, shooting film he really couldn't afford about things he really didn't need. It had been dark before he'd gone back, and Roger and April were nowhere to be seen. His room had been mercifully empty, and there'd been no awkward encounters this morning. Possibly because he'd gotten up early and escaped the loft before anyone else could drag themselves out of bed.

He'd done some more pointless filming, and then he'd gone to the Life where he'd met Maureen. And then, stupid him, he'd mentioned wanting to get a haircut to try a different look. He hadn't meant right then, because he'd planned to think about this more first, but Maureen had taken this as an invitation and, before he could do anything, had dragged him home with her.

He supposed that most guys would be overjoyed to be dragged home by Maureen. Unfortunately…

"What the hell did she do to it?" he muttered, brushing it down and looking into the mirror again.

She'd murdered it, that's what she'd done. She'd fucking murdered his hair. She'd shaved the sides of his head, and left the top long, except for a bit of trimming. Now that he'd un-gelled it, it lay flat on his head like some kind of horrible toupee. Mark blanched. He couldn't leave it like this. If anyone else saw it—

There was a sharp knock, and then the bathroom door opened and Roger walked in, razor in one hand and the other scratching at his chin. "This much beard is itchy," he complained before catching sight of Mark, who had frozen in place, one hand still trying to smooth his hair down. Roger froze too, and then slowly lowered the hand that was scratching. "What did you do to your hair?" he asked.

"What did Maureen do to my hair is the better question," Mark said, watching his face turn red in the mirror. No, this was not his week. Roger had seen The Hair before he could fix it. He could only brace himself for the consequences and hope that Roger left him with some dignity. He blinked. Who was he kidding? This was i Roger /i . He was doomed.

"It looks like something blonde died on your head," Roger offered helpfully, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

Mark flicked water at Roger. "Shut up! I'm trying to figure out how to fix it," he said. "Go away." Roger going away would be a good thing. One, he wouldn't get teased anymore if Roger left. Two, his blush wasn't entirely from his hair. His thoughts still went to the day before when he saw Roger. He really didn't need for them both to be standing shirtless in a tiny bathroom together.

But Roger didn't go away. Instead he set his razor on the shelf and buried his hands in Mark's hair. Now it was Mark's turn to freeze, and what the fuck was going on? Roger's fingers dug through to his scalp, leaving his hair standing up wildly between them.

"I don't know, Mark," Roger said in a mock-serious voice, stepping closer. He pulled his hands up so Mark's hair was standing on end. "You could leave it like that and just gel it up like this." He moved his hands, and Mark's head obediently tilted back and forth, like Mark was a puppet. He pursed his lips and nodded seriously. "Yes, this is a good look for you."

Fucking hell, Roger was standing entirely too close, close enough that his chest was brushing Mark's shoulder blades. Mark swallowed hard and could only stare at their reflections for second, Roger looking over his shoulder. Then he blinked and looked at his hair, hoping Roger hadn't noticed his lapse. "What? No! Go away," he said, batting Roger's hands away. "You're as bad as Maureen. Go…go play your guitar or something." Get out before Mark said or did something stupid was what he really meant. But at least Roger left, with one final grin. Which was surprising. Usually he went through three or four taunts before giving up. Mark had no doubt this wasn't the end of it though. He'd definitely hear about this later. Probably for the rest of his life.

With a sigh he picked up the pair of scissors he'd brought in with him. Maybe if he just made it a little shorter, it wouldn't look _quite_ so hideous…

**Wednesday**

Mark shoved his hand in his pocket as he neared the building, digging through the mass of odds and ends to find the key. It was just starting to rain, the cold drops raising goosebumps on his arms. He had good timing; he'd be inside before it rained harder, like it looked like it was going to soon.

Except his fingers did not encounter any key-like shape in his pocket, even after extensive rummaging. He reached the door and stopped, looking down at his pocket. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. He couldn't have…

But when he began emptying his pockets into his other hand, it began apparent that yes, yes he could have. And had. No key. He'd locked himself out. "Great timing, Mark," he muttered to himself, hastily shoving things back into his pocket except for some change. Well, he could still call someone from the pay phone to let him in. Someone should be there, and he'd be inside before he got too wet.

The sky opened up just as he reached the pay phone, and it started to pour. Okay, so he'd be inside before he was wet for long. Mark dropped change into the phone. "Come on, pick up," he growled as it started to ring. He shifted back and forth, trying to keep the cold rain from running down the back of his neck. The phone kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing. "Fucking answer the phone!" Mark shouted to no one. All he got was their answering machine. "Someone fucking pick up," he said after the tone. Of course, no one did.

Thunder boomed just as he gave up, and it started raining even harder, if possible. "Fuck," Mark growled, slamming the phone down. "Fuck!" Now what was he supposed to do? It was raining, and he was locked out. This week just couldn't get any worse, he knew it. This was the bottom.

He punched the phone, because it seemed like a good idea. As if punching it would make someone answer it. It didn't. It just made his knuckles bruise and something go _crunch_ in his hand. "Fuck! Shit! Damn! Ow!" Now his hand just hurt. He cradled it in his other hand. It didn't feel broken, but definitely bruised. Phone: 1 Mark: 0 Okay, so it could get worse. "Fuck," he muttered again, glaring up at his window. Swearing at least made him feel a little better.

"Mark?"

Mark turned to see Roger coming down the sidewalk behind him, carrying a carryout bag. He waited as Roger got closer.

"Did you just punch the phone?" Roger asked. He pulled out his key and opened the door to the building. Mark followed him inside.

"Maybe," he admitted. He paused. "I locked myself out," he mumbled a second later.

Roger burst out laughing. He laughed all the way up two sets of stairs, which was completely to be expected. Roger had no pity. Mark just glared at his back and patiently followed him, trying to wring out his sleeves as he did so. Roger finally stopped laughing long enough to ask, "How long have you been standing out there?"

Mark sighed. "Long enough to lose a fight with the phone," he said, holding up his hand. The edge of it, where he'd hit the phone, was already red and slightly puffy. This time, Roger didn't stop chortling until they'd gotten to the loft.

"Seriously Mark," Roger said, slinging a soggy arm around Mark's shoulders as they entered the loft, "when are you just going to give in and admit it?"

Mark bemusedly let Roger spin them around long enough to shut the door before his brain could function enough to answer. And then it ran through several things Roger though he should admit. Mark's sudden attraction for Roger being high on that list. "Wait, what?" was all he could stammer out.

Roger swung them around again and steered them towards the table long enough to sit the carryout bag on the table. "That you're the biggest dork in the history of ever," Roger said, releasing Mark at the door to his room.

Mark blinked and relaxed. He could deal with this—they'd only had similar conversations five thousand times. "You're lucky you're my best friend or I'd kick your ass for that!" Mark said brashly as Roger laughed and departed into his own room. He didn't shut the door, and Mark stared as he stripped off his shirt and sodden jeans. When Roger hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, though, Mark's face burned red and he hurriedly stumbled into his room. Not that he didn't want to watch, but he wasn't about to get caught staring. Roger would probably get several admissions out of Mark then, and Mark didn't want that. Still, it took all of his willpower not to look back.

Closing his door, he started to strip out of his own wet clothes.

**Thursday**

Today was going to be better, Mark vowed as he climbed into the shower. He was going to be extra careful not to lock himself out. He was starting to get used to his hair—which was entirely too short, but at least not as hideous as what Maureen had done. Maureen was miffed that he'd messed up her handiwork, but she was still talking to him, which was good. His hand was only mildly stiff. And most of all, he wasn't, under any circumstances, going to stare or think about Roger in any way other than as his friend. It only led to awkward situations that shouldn't have been awkward in the first place. Not that they were awkward to Roger, who, as far as Mark knew, had no idea what Mark was thinking. Which was good.

He turned on the water. Well, it was starting out good. The water was warm, for once, which was a small miracle.

Why had he started wanting to have sex with Roger, he wondered as he washed the stubble of his hair. When had he crossed that line between "friend" and "desirable"? It's not like Roger had done anything new, or acted differently, or changed his look or anything. Maybe seeing someone having sex on your bed put new possibilities into your mind. Or maybe he was just a crazy person. Or maybe Roger was just too hot for his own good. It's not like Mark hadn't known that Roger was attractive before. He'd always been aware of Roger's tight, lean build, of how a little eyeliner made his eyes seem a hundred times bigger and greener, of how Roger liked to wear tight clothes with many rips to show off skin, of how he only liked to shave once in a while to keep the slightly scruffy look. It confused him, and he couldn't think of a single obvious explanation. It had to be seeing Roger having sex on _his_ bed. Maybe they'd become so good of friends that seeing that had just tipped the balance…

He only came out of this downward spiral of obsession when he realized he'd wrapped his hand around himself. Good god, he was jerking off to thoughts of his best friend. He should be disgusted with himself…only he wasn't. That thought made him disgusted with himself for not being disgusted with himself, if that made any sense. Suddenly a steamy shower was not where he wanted to be—not if he didn't want to end up disgracing himself further.

"Friend. Friend. _Friend_," he muttered, quickly rinsing the rest of the soap off of himself. "He's your fucking friend." Fucking friend… Not the best word choice. He shook his head and fumbled for the shower curtain. Always run away from moments of embarrassment, even when you're the one embarrassing yourself.

Only, because he was in a hurry and because this week was out to kill him, the shower curtain curled around his legs and he managed to fall out of the shower and knock the wind out of himself landing on the bathroom floor. He swore under his breath, damn, now his shins hurt, and he'd banged his already-bruised hand. Mark: 0 The World: Probably about 5000 by now.

There was a knock on the door. "Mark? Are you alive?" came Roger's voice through the door, although he thankfully didn't come in. "What was that crash?"

His first attempt at speech came out in a wheeze. He coughed and tried again. "I tripped," he called, "But I'm fine." He stared at the door, willing Roger not to come in. Not with him naked and wet and laying on the floor and fresh from thinking x-rated thoughts about Roger…

He sighed softly and lightly beat his forehead against the floor as he heard Roger walk away. Yes, he was fine. Fine if he could just go to sleep for the rest of this fucking week. With a groan, he pushed himself off the bathroom floor.

**Friday**

Today, he made it through breakfast with no sign of Roger or April (who he had heard all night). He made it through his shower with no mishaps by resolutely thinking about finding a job (which was unlikely, but at least it didn't lead to any other types of thoughts). Unfortunately, by the time he'd gotten dressed Roger and April were awake and having breakfast.

He walked out of his room, stilling pulling his sweater over his head, only to come to complete halt. April was sitting on Roger's lap, giggling as he fed her spoonfuls of cereal. She looked up as he entered the room.

"Hey Mark," she said around a mouthful of milk.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, tugging his sweater down. Roger was too absorbed with dribbling milk in the hollow of April's neck and licking it off to notice him. April giggled and pushed at his shoulders, but Roger just tugged her closer and licked further up her neck.

Mark ducked back into his room and grabbed his camera. Looks like it was going to be another day of filming; he wasn't going to be able to edit anything with them around, not when they were in this mood. When he came back out, April was leaning back against the table as Roger chased a drop of milk down her chest. Mark flushed. "I'm uh—I'm uh, going to go out and film," he said to the room at large.

Roger, finally catching the droplet, looked over. "No breakfast?" he asked, smirking slightly, doubtless at Mark's reddening face.

"N-no, uhh, I've got to…film." He awkwardly held up his camera and started edging towards the door.

Roger's smirk got bigger. "You've been doing a lot of that lately," he said, running his hands up April's thighs. Mark swallowed, willing himself to look away. Except by the time he did, he was pretty sure Roger had seen him, and all that he could do was look at the floor by Roger's feet.

"Yeah, umm, I'm just—" God, why couldn't he think of something to say? He dragged his gaze up somewhere to the vicinity of Roger's face. "I need—to film. I'll be back later." He turned around and almost ran into the door. How'd he get so close to it? "Oof, err—bye," he muttered over his shoulder. He saw Roger lazily wave his hand and wave and then Mark finally had the door open and scurried out.

This week was reaching up there to being the worst week of Mark's life. Roger had to know something was up. They'd been friends for too long for Roger not to know. Roger had the uncanny ability to pick on whatever was making Mark most uncomfortable. Mark suspected Roger had developed it solely in order to find the best way of teasing Mark. Either way, it meant that, what with the inordinate amount of staring Mark had been doing, and stammering, and fighting with inanimate objects, Roger was sure to know or guess what was making him uncomfortable.

Mark could only hope he guessed wrong.

**Saturday**

It was Saturday night, and while Mark was sure Roger knew that something was making Mark uncomfortable, he was fairly sure that Roger had not guessed the real reason. So far so good. If he could just keep control of himself when Roger was around, act calm and as near as possible to normal, then maybe he would be able to get this situation under control without Roger finding out.

In public, he was doing a decent job of that. April had been gone all day, and Roger had been bumming around the loft all day, but by burying himself in his screenwriting he had been able to mostly avoid embarrassing himself.

Now, however, he had retreated to his room and his brain was taking over and making him pay for all the hours of forcing himself to not think of Roger. It seemed like all he could think about was Roger laying back over his bed, hands clutching April's waist. Mark swallowed hard, thinking about the light from his one bedside lamp had played over Roger's chest and abs, making him half glow and half become shadow.

He'd already shed his shirt and jeans, and now his hand slowly slid down his chest. Mark lacked the will to make himself stop this time. He was alone, maybe just once… He tried again to stop. Instead he thought about Roger's hands – they were rough, covered with calluses, nails painted black and chipping off. His hand slipped inside his boxers as his mental picture moved up Roger's tense arms to his face.

Mark tensed and lifted his hips into his own hand. When he had walked in on them, Roger had looked over at him with an unrepentant half-smile on his face, lips quirking lazily up even as he had looked back at April. Mark's mouth dried out, thinking of that look. Would the smirk have stayed if he'd stepped further into the room and joined them? His free hand clutched his sheets as his mind started down the path of possibilities, his breaths coming faster. What if—

"Hey Mark."

Mark's eyes flew open, and he jerked his hand out of his boxers and sat up on one elbow, still breathing hard. Roger was standing there; Mark hadn't even heard him open the door. Fuck, how long had he been standing there? Had Mark said anything out loud? After a few seconds of silence he swallowed and said, "R-roger."

Roger wass just watching him, and Mark wass painfully aware he'd just been jerking off while thinking of him. Was it possible for his face to get any redder? He propped himself up more and brought his knees slightly up, as if he could hide his obvious erection from Roger now. "What do you w-w—" He stutters over "want" because suddenly Roger is on the bed next to him.

"You've been staring at me all week," Roger said. He punctuated this by taking off his shirt, and Mark i did /i stare, because how was he not supposed to when Roger was inches from him? Roger pulled the shirt over his head and smirked. "You're staring now." He moved closer to Mark. "You've been staring ever since you walked in on me and April." Mark opened his mouth, but Roger kept talking. "And you've been avoiding us when you haven't been staring." Mark tried again to talk, but once again Roger talked over him, creeping still closer. Mark was beginning to feel crowded. "You were just jerking off to the thought of us."

Mark closed his mouth at that, because there was no way, with Roger practically on top of him and his cock still taking up most of his blood supply, that he was going to be able to deny that. Roger's face changed, amusement mingling with his superior smirk. "That's right, isn't it?" He cracked a grin. "I was just guessing on that one, but you're not denying it. Admit it!"

There was no way in hell he was going to admit that. Not in a million years. You just didn't admit to things like that, even when it was painfully obvious it was true. "No!" It's a weak denial, even to his own ears, and he tried to stand up. Roger stood up first though, and blocked him before he got anywhere. So he was forced to stand there, with Roger standing almost pressed against him, his knees hitting the bed. It was either that or sit back down and leave Roger standing over him. Fuck, where did this come from?

He tried to press Roger out of the way and walk around him, escape the room to anywhere else, but Roger didn't budge. In fact, Roger stopped Mark, by simply palming Mark through his boxers. Mark gasped and froze, his hand on Roger's arm in the act of shoving him to the side. "Now would be the time, if you weren't thinking about me," Roger said, "for you to shove me away and ask me what the fuck I'm doing."

"What the—fuck are you doing?" Mark obediently managed to ask, but he definitely wasn't shoving Roger away. Instead, he had a death grip on both of Roger's arms just to keep himself standing. Roger moved his hand a little, pressed a little more, and Mark's fingers convulsed and his hips moved. Some part of him wanted to shove Roger and run, but most of him just wanted to topple them both backwards onto the bed and go from there.

Roger evidently had the same idea, because he pressed forward until Mark lost his balance and fell back. Roger followed him down, one knee between Mark's legs, his hand still pressing against Mark's cock. "I am ambushing you," Roger said, his face inches from Mark's face. "Because you want me. And because we're friends, so why the fuck shouldn't we?"

"But," Mark tried to say, but he didn't get far. Well, to be honest, he wasn't trying that hard, instead putting more of his efforts into trying to get Roger's pants off and trying to get Roger to go faster and trying to keep himself from just exploding. There was probably some small part of his brain going "but," but it was a very small part.

"You should have just asked to join when you walked in on us last week," Roger breathed in Mark's ear, licking lazily along the edge before he pulled back. He finally slipped his hand into Mark's boxers, causing Mark to arch his hips and making a strangled, choking noise.

Dammit, that wasn't fair. How was Mark supposed to be listening to Roger when Roger was pressing down against him harder? His brain about exploded from both his current physical situation and from the knowledge that he _could_ have asked. "Why didn't you ask me to then?" he managed to say.

Again, that damn smirk stretched across Roger's face. "I wanted to see how long you'd hold out," he said. He began to move faster, causing Mark's breath to hitch. "You did better than I thought you would," he said. "And April bet you'd break by Wednesday."

Once again, Mark's brain had some sort of seizure over that tidbit of information. Great, he'd become a source of betting between Roger and April. He should have more bothered by that, but it was difficult at the present moment. Sudeenly his eyes flew open wide. "Wait, April!" He managed to half sit up under Roger. "She's okay with this?"

Roger sat up also, although he didn't remove his hand. He nodded slowly, and Mark was beginning to think that that smirk was a permanent fixture. "Would I be here if she wasn't?" Roger asked.

Good point. Roger and April were practically joined at the hip. Mark relaxed again as Roger pushed him back down, pulling back long enough to jerk down Mark's boxers.

Maybe this week wasn't so bad after all.

**Sunday**

Mark floated through the morning. Waking up next to Roger would have that effect on any day, even though Roger had mostly been sprawled on top of him, making it a bit difficult to breathe. He wasn't sure what had happened, what it meant, or what was going to happen next, but Roger hadn't seemed to regret last night when Mark had woken him up so that he could get out of bed. Or at least Roger had been more grumpy at being woken up at all and not about where he was being woken up at.

This week, despite having a shitty start, was turning out good. In fact, the amazingness of last night almost negated the absolutely badness of the beginning of it. Almost, because his hand still hurt and his hair still looked like crap.

He was going back to the loft from spending some of their meager cash on food. Roger had gone out to find April—evidently she hadn't come back last night at all. Roger hadn't seemed that worried, but had gone out to look anyway. He wasn't quite sure where April fit into this, but he wasn't going to question it until later. Right now was too good.

Walking back into the loft, however, was chaos. Roger was on his knees _howling_. Collins was holding him back, keeping him from lunging into the bathroom. Benny was on the phone, speaking in a rising voice, gesturing wildly with his hands. Mark caught "…killed herself in the bathtub with a razor." And then he was racing over to Roger, to help Collins in trying to calm him down. Through the open door he could see a flash of April's hair, lying in the full tub. His eyes also caught the note stuck to the mirror. His stomach twisted, heaved, and then finally settled for becoming knotted and rock-like.

Fuck. The week was back to being the worst week of Mark's life again, only now his luck had spread to Roger too. Just great.


End file.
